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A Owen Barfield’s Poetry, Drama, and Fiction: Rider on Pegasus 1st Edition Hipolito
“Jeffrey Hipolito has produced a meticulous analysis of the creative oeuvre of Owen Barfield, the man known as ‘the first and last Inkling.’ While I was familiar with Barfield’s philosophy, I knew little about his extensive creative output; Hipolito has immersed himself in the literary traditions that shaped Barfield’s creative oeuvre, deftly contextualizing it for his audience.”
––Donna L. Potts, Professor and Chair, Department of English, Washington State University—author of Howard Nemerov and Objective Idealism: The Influence of Owen Barfield
“In a style that is at once erudite, eloquent, insightful, and lucid, Owen Barfield’s Poetry, Drama, and Fiction: Rider on Pegasus provides the first comprehensive elucidation of Barfield’s literary and poetic works. Jeffrey Hipolito illustrates how the well-known themes and perspectives of Barfield’s philosophical, linguistic, and critical writings are also central to his imaginative works of fiction, drama, and poetry. Owen Barfield’s Poetry, Drama, and Fiction: Rider on Pegasus is an indispensable source for future research on Barfield, which will have to take into account the magnitude and unity of Barfield’s oeuvre as a writer, poet, and philosopher. In short, Hipolito makes it clear that a complete understanding of Barfield the philosopher is only possible when complemented with an understanding of Barfield the poet (and vice versa).”
––Dr Luke Fischer, University of Sydney
Owen Barfield’s Poetry, Drama, and Fiction
Owen Barfield influenced a diverse range of writers that includes T. S. Eliot, J. R. R. Tolkien, W. H. Auden, Howard Nemerov, and Saul Bellow, and Owen Barfield’s Poetry, Drama, and Fiction is the first book to comprehensively explore and assess the literary career of the “fourth Inkling,” Owen Barfield. It examines his major poems, plays, and novels, with special attention both to his development over a seventy-year literary career and to the manifold ways in which his work responds with power, originality, and insight to modernist London, the nuclear age, and the dawning era of environmental crisis. With this volume, it is now possible to place into clear view the full career and achievement of Owen Barfield, who has been called the British Heidegger, the first and last Inkling, and the last Romantic.
Jeffrey Hipolito is the author of Owen Barfield’s Poetic Philosophy: Meaning and Imagination (Bloomsbury, 2024), and his work has appeared in The Oxford Handbook of Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Journal of the History of Ideas, European Romantic Review, Journal of Inklings Studies, VII: Journal of the Marion E. Wade Center, and Renascence. He currently serves as the chairperson of the Owen Barfield Society.
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Edited by Matthias Bauer and Angelika Zirker
The Literary Role of History in the Fiction of J. R. R. Tolkien
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Enric Valor
Edited and Translated by Paul Scott Derrick and Maria-Lluïsa Gea-Valor
Queer Kinship in Sarah Schulman’s AIDS Novels
Jarosław Milewski
Durée as Einstein-In-The-Heart
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Owen Barfield’s Poetry, Drama, and Fiction
Rider on Pegasus
Jeffrey Hipolito
For more information about this series, please visit: www.routledge.com/Routledge-Studiesin-Twentieth-Century-Literature/book-series/RSTLC
Owen Barfield’s Poetry, Drama, and Fiction
Rider on Pegasus
Jeffrey Hipolito
First published 2024 by Routledge
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ISBN: 978-1-032-70145-5 (hbk)
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For
Anouk
O voi che per la via d’Amor passate
–Dante Alighieri
1.1 William Blake, Europe: A Prophecy, 1794, printed 1795, copy a, plate 6. Yale Center for British Art, Yale University, New Haven, Connecticut
1.2 William Blake, Jerusalem, c. 1821, copy e, plate 6. Yale Center for British Art. Yale University, New Haven, Connecticut
1.3 William Blake, The Book of Urizen, 1794, copy c, plate 8. Yale Center for British Art, Yale University, New Haven, Connecticut
1.4 William Blake, The Book of Urizen, 1794, copy c, plate 5. Yale Center for British Art, Yale University, New Haven, Connecticut
14
25
27
30
5.1 Albrecht Dürer, Saint John Devouring the Book, from the Apocalypse, 1497–1498. The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York 193
Acknowledgments
I came to Owen Barfield’s work through my parents, Jane and Terry Hipolito. I could not have written it without them; my mother, especially, knew more about Barfield’s life and work than anyone, and her bibliography of Barfield’s published writings remains unsurpassed and invaluable. Hazard Adams originally suggested to me thirty years ago that I write a book about Owen Barfield. I was not ready to then, but the idea he gave me was a seed that warmed itself in darkness until it was finally ready to sprout. I was privileged to know and correspond with Owen Barfield himself. I had no idea at the time that he was a highly accomplished poet, playwright, and novelist; like his readers, I knew him then for his intellectual brilliance, but I was also privileged to witness and benefit from his incredible generosity and patience. Luke Fischer, another model of generosity and patience, read every chapter and offered unstinting encouragement and insightful advice. Special thanks are due to Owen A. Barfield, the grandson of my subject. He is always encouraging and helpful, and I am especially grateful that he has allowed me to quote freely from Barfield’s published and unpublished writings. I am also grateful to Renascence and the Journal of Inklings Studies, and their wonderful respective editors John Curran and Judith Wolfe, for permission to quote parts of chapters three and four, now heavily revised. My son Michael smoothed the path of this book with his humor, love, intelligence, and zest for life. I dedicate this book to Anouk Tompot, who made it and everything else possible.
Abbreviations
ABS A Barfield Sampler
ES Eager Spring
HEW History in English Words
HGH History, Guilt and Habit
NO Night Operation
O Orpheus
PD Poetic Diction
RCA Romanticism Comes of Age
RM The Rediscovery of Meaning
SA Saving the Appearances
SM Speaker’s Meaning
TEDP This Ever Diverse Pair
TMPP The Tower: Major Poems and Plays
UV Unancestral Voice
WA Worlds Apart
WCT What Coleridge Thought
YP The Year Participated
Introduction
Nearly forty years ago, Thomas Kranidas, a Milton specialist and close friend of Owen Barfield in his later years, wrote a now-classic article in which he argued that
Barfield was primarily a creator, not an analyst, a writer of considerable achievement, a poet whose experience with the creative process helped hugely to lead him into those inquiries which produced Poetic Diction, History in English Words, Saving the Appearances, What Coleridge Thought, Speaker’s Meaning, Worlds Apart and History, Guilt and Habit.
(Kranidas, Defiant Lyricism, 24)
Kranidas’ comment was a response to the dominant view, that Barfield was most notable as a philosopher, philologist, and early exponent of the “science” of literary criticism.1 It was not common knowledge then, nor is it today, that as Barfield worked on History in English Words and Poetic Diction during the 1920s, he was also writing a major poem, The Tower, and a novel, English People, in which he recapitulated, expanded, and put to dramatic use the themes of those more well-known books. Similarly, relatively few people are aware that during his supposedly fallow years in the 1930s and 1940s Barfield wrote three plays and two more major poems, The Unicorn and Riders on Pegasus. Likewise, there is little recognition that Barfield bridged the period from 1950 to 1970—roughly, the years between two more of his most famous works, Saving the Appearances and What Coleridge Thought with a trilogy that is astonishingly varied in thought and literary form.2 Finally, in the period of Barfield’s supposedly gentle decline into visiting professorships and interviews, he wrote two more innovative novellas and a “paraphrase,” as he called it, titled The Year Participated. Here too, we must say that Barfield was more active than he has seemed.
The intervening years since Kranidas’ groundbreaking article have brought a biography, studies of different aspects of Barfield’s poetics and philosophy, the publication of his verse drama Orpheus, and an important anthology of Barfield’s poetry and fiction, A Barfield Sampler, co-edited by Barfield, Kranidas, and Jeanne Clayton Hunter. Barfield’s novellas Night Operation and Eager Spring (2009) have been published, and more recently The Tower: Major Poems and Plays (2020) has made available Barfield’s three long poems and his remaining plays. Even so, this is the first study of Barfield as a literary artist.
Later generations will look back with perplexity on the slow growth in appreciation for Barfield’s creative work, not only because of its intrinsic interest and its centrality to his overall achievement but also because it is an important episode in the literary history of the twentieth century. To take one small example, T. S. Eliot published “Dope,” one of Barfield’s early short stories, in The Criterion. A year earlier, as Eliot prepared to launch the journal, he said that
its great aim is to raise the standard of thought and writing in this country by both international and historical comparison. Among English writers I am combining those of the older generation who have any vitality and enterprise, with the more serious of the younger generation, no matter how advanced, for instance Mr Wyndham Lewis and Mr Ezra Pound.
(Eliot, The Letters of T. S. Eliot, 1, 710)
For Eliot, Barfield was among the serious writers who raised the standard of thought and writing in England, and in the 1920s cultivated him as a possible member of the coterie that included Wyndham Lewis and Ezra Pound. According to John Kelly, Eliot had Yeats in mind as the chief example among the older generation that still had “vitality and enterprise” (Kelly, Eliot and Yeats, 202). It is fitting, then, that in the July 1923 issue of The Criterion, the first piece is a portion of Yeats’s autobiography and the second piece is Barfield’s “Dope.” While at Faber & Gwyer (later Faber & Faber), Eliot saw into print over the course of thirty-five years both editions of Poetic Diction (including the jacket blurb for the first edition, showing there that he had also read History in English Words with care and appreciation), the second edition of History in English Words, Saving the Appearances, and Worlds Apart. Eliot sought to meet Barfield and invited him to contribute to The Criterion, though for practical reasons he declined to publish The Tower. After the Second World War, Barfield published a number of poems in The New English Weekly, which was also frequented by Eliot, though again Eliot chose not to add Barfield’s The Unicorn to the poetry list at Faber & Faber. A few years before his death,
Eliot wrote to Barfield unprompted to say that Saving the Appearances was “one of those books which makes me proud to be a director who publishes them.” Eliot knew and appreciated Barfield as both a creative and a critical writer. Though Barfield did not have the central place in Eliot’s creative and intellectual development occupied by Ezra Pound or F. H. Bradley, without a better appreciation of Barfield’s complete oeuvre we cannot know what his impact was. The same is true of his influence on W. H. Auden and Walter de la Mare, among others.
Perhaps one reason for the relatively lethargic pace in appreciating Barfield literary accomplishments is that because he was a member of the Inklings, he has been seen as fighting the tide of Modernism. This too is a misconception. Though Barfield primarily (but not always) wrote in traditional verse forms, he freely adapted these to his own purposes. Perhaps the most prominent example of this is his variation on ottava rima in Riders on Pegasus, which formally and thematically anticipates Auden’s Shield of Achilles. Likewise, though Barfield has little in common with James Joyce beyond the shared influence of William Blake and Percy Shelley, English People uses an apparently third person narrative voice that turns out to be the developing artist-protagonist in disguise, a technique pioneered and perfected as part of the Modernist repertoire by the Irish author of A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man and Ulysses. Just as we cannot appreciate Barfield’s impact on his peers without closer study, so too must we see Barfield as fully a part of his times to understand his own works.
Hazard Adams coined the phrase “Romantic Modernism” to capture the unique achievement of Yeats’s A Vision. The phrase also captures nicely Barfield’s self-perceived relation to his time. Like Yeats, he took in Blake, Shelley, and Keats through the pores, and remained committed to their aesthetic in theory and practice alike. At the same time, he saw that aesthetic as being in productive dialogue (a relation that in his metaphysics he describes as “polarity”) with modernity in general and Modernism in particular. Far from reactively rejecting Modernism, Barfield stayed abreast of it, finding there poetic and intellectual “friends,” as he called them in the afterword to the third edition of Poetic Diction (1983). One aim of this book is to bring out the Janus-faced quality of Barfield’s creative intelligence, looking back to his Romantic inheritance even as he brings a penetrating gaze to the present.
The chapters in this book proceed chronologically, in order to illustrate the gradual unfolding of Barfield’s creative output taken as a whole. Chapter 1 explores the initial formation of Barfield’s poetic sensibility, in relation both to his visionary Romantic forbearers and to the contemporary poet whose gifts he most admired, Walter de la Mare. It then turns to his first major attempt at neo-Romantic visionary verse, The Tower,
with a special emphasis on its complex, nuanced allusiveness. Chapter 2 turns to English People, the novel Barfield wrote while he was also at work on The Tower and Poetic Diction. This chapter places the novel squarely in the currents of its times, including what G. R. S. Mead called at the time the “rising tide” of interest in occultism, while exploring the personal crises of characters who mirror a broader social apocalypse. Chapter 3 turns to Barfield’s dramas, which were all written roughly within a decade of each other. The chapter highlights Barfield’s fully formed understanding of the origin and purpose of drama, and argues that they embody the commitment to post-Wagnerian Expressionism and Symbolism that he advocates in his drama criticism of the previous decade. Chapter 4 turns to Barfield’s two epic romances, written after the dramas and in quick succession. The poems reflect the new reality of the nuclear age, from the minor-key ironies of The Unicorn to the Blakean and Shelleyan visionary mytho-poetic mode of Riders on Pegasus. Chapter 5 examines Barfield’s late novellas Night Operation and Eager Spring as well The Year Participated, his creative “paraphrase” of Rudolf Steiner’s Soul Calendar. The three works form a kind of triptych, with Night Operation presenting a dystopian vision in a satirical response to B. F. Skinner’s Walden Two, while Eager Spring and The Year Participated (which Barfield wrote simultaneously) explore the roots of that possible dystopia and offer a possible remedy in the form of spiritual self-transformation. Despite its unique tone and form, The Year Participated makes a fitting coda to Barfield’s seventyfive year career as a writer, returning to the themes of his first major poem, The Tower, to remind us that in our beginning, truly, is our end.
Notes
1 For an account of Barfield’s critical and philosophical system, see my Owen Barfield’s Poetic Philosophy: Imagination and Meaning (Bloomsbury 2024).
2 For an analysis of the Burgeon trilogy see Hipolito, Owen Barfield’s Poetic Philosophy
1 A Figured Zodiac
The Tower
Barfield’s achievement with Poetic Diction and History in English Words currently eclipses his reputation as a serious poet, but as he developed his poetics and immersed himself in the combative London literary scene, he honed his craft as a poet. Barfield strove no less than Shelley and Eliot to become the “perfect critic” who could balance synthesis and analysis, poetry and criticism, while fostering the growth of his imagination. His theoretical work in poetics and semantics, anthroposophy and metaphysics, historiography and ethics, is that of a working creative artist exploring the deeper reaches of his craft, and sharing the results with his peers.1 This chapter describes what it meant to Barfield to be a poet in the hurlyburly of post-war literary London and takes a close look at The Tower, the major poem of this period that he wrote while he worked on History in English Words, Poetic Diction, and English People. As we rediscover Barfield’s poetry in light of his poetics, we see that it too focuses primarily on the relations of language to consciousness, poetry to meaning, and on the efforts of modern minds to regain the “living unity” that Barfield believed he had revealed in his philological research.
Barfield’s desire to become a poet at all was rooted in his powerful early encounter with poetic language. He described this formative event in various places. For example, he noted in the introductions to the two editions of Romanticism Comes of Age that during his adolescence he experienced “a sudden and rapid increase in the intensity with which I experienced lyric poetry.” He approached it phenomenologically as an unwitting Goethean scientist: “I kept my attention on the experience itself and was not attracted by rhetorical explanations which led away from it” (RCA, 18). However, he considered the phenomenon inexplicable, given “the intellectual vacuum” generated by his “skepticism on all subjects pertaining to the origin and spiritual nature of man” (RCA, 17). Barfield thus found himself impressed both by “the power with which not so much whole poems as particular combinations of words worked on my mind,” and by the concomitant effect that he “felt a strong impulse to penetrate
into [the ‘magical’ experience] and to reach what, if anything, lay behind it” (RCA, 18).
This epiphany was accompanied by another, of
the way in which my intense experience of poetry reacted on my apprehension of the outer world. The face of nature, the objects of art, the events of history and human intercourse betrayed significances hitherto unknown as the result of precisely . . . poetic or imaginative combinations of words. . . . I found I knew things about them which I had not known before.
(RCA, 3)
These descriptions evoke Shelley’s poetics, which is central to Poetic Diction: metaphors react upon the meanings of their constituent words, and reveal hitherto unapprehended relations among phenomena. This experience of poetic language also verges on the mystical, as it fundamentally alters the relation of the self to inner and outer phenomena. In many of his poems, Barfield sought to reach an audience calcified by Eliot and his colleagues into “a little knot of hollow men, intoning solemn misery” (ABS, 36) with what he considered to be Wordsworth’s gift “in the Prelude . . . [to] stress the importance of the productions of fancy for the opening of man’s eyes to the true spirit of nature” (RCA, 9). To plant a “paradise of poetry” is the fundamental creative act because “all genuine art is the result of some degree of supersensible cognition,” as for example when “one lives with the Spirit of the Earth in a specially vivid and secure way” (Barfield, Romanticism and Anthroposophy, 120). For Barfield, this is the path out of the wasteland. Barfield notes the presence of this awareness “in particular . . . throughout the fourteen books of Wordsworth’s Prelude” (Barfield, Romanticism and Anthroposophy, 121–122). Barfield’s poetry, no less than his poetics, was thus part of an effort to “take Romanticism . . . seriously” at a time when “it seemed to have been attacked on all sides” (RCA, 5–6). This included a commitment to the methodical development of what Coleridge called “organs of spirit . . . framed for a correspondent world” (Coleridge, The Collected Works of Samuel Taylor Coleridge Volume 7, 1, 242). In his first decade of work in particular, Barfield saw the poet as a kind of magus, tasked with leading her contemporaries to an experience of the spiritual, such that she might help lead a movement of social and cultural healing.2
The Response to Modernism
As in his poetics, where Barfield positioned himself between the antiRomanticism of Eliot and Pound and the neo-Romanticism of D. H.
Lawrence, from the beginning Barfield-the-poet opposed both the Modernism of Eliot and Pound and the neo-Romanticism of Yeats and Rilke. A remarkable neo-Blakean prophetic poem of 1951, “History of English Poetry in the Second Half of the Twentieth Century,” which Barfield wrote not long after completing his most ambitious poem, Riders on Pegasus, takes aim not merely at “the Newtonian age-end” (Barfield, History of English Poetry, 4) but at Eliot, Pound, and “silly” Auden as “minc[ing] . . . bards” who refused “to accord nature a psyche” because they “were silk-worms of their own souls” (Barfield, History of English Poetry, 4). Instead, “with a sharp eye for the outside,” these poet-catastrophes “make a polite noise” while “the bright boys . . . observe nature and make notes” (Barfield, History of English Poetry, 5). Though unfair in manifold ways to Eliot, Pound, and Auden, the poem makes clear that Barfield’s poetry is sometimes as combative as his criticism. Another mid-century poem, “I am much inclined towards a life of ease,” an unpublished sonnet after the manner of Keats, imagines his “Magnum Opus”—perhaps Riders on Pegasus—to be “that one which untwists / Their bays from poets who shirk metaphor / And make rich words grow obsolete—and leave / Imagination to psychiatrists.”
“Al Fresco (on modern poetry)” is similarly full-throated in its rejection of Eliot’s dour vers libre:
Who’s for outdoors? Who’s had enough of all this?
Hurl a stone to splinter the sealed-up window, Pierce the stale-accentual froust, the dreary, Droned, never-ending,
Sharply flat, sententiously unromantic, Unctuously startling combinations, Postured substantival effects—the bleating, Follow-my-leader, Cant of curt, contemplative tropes’ detachment! Half-asleep, chain-smoking . . . among the wine-stains Smart the conversation—who’s for the open Lift of a language
Laced with verbs, not frightened of consonants, or Juxtaposed stressed syllables, fit for breathing, Harshly sweet, strong, quantitatively trim, loud, Shoutable English?
(ABS, 36)
One recognizes Auden in the slovenly chain-smoker, but Barfield largely aims this poem at Eliot. The critique is similar to the one in the 1951
preface to Poetic Diction, in which Barfield complains that in the poetry of Eliot and Auden “language tends to lose its rhetorical and architectural structure” and that Eliot in particular “uses metaphor as sparingly as possible” (PD, 36). The poem suggests by default that Barfield strove in his own poetry for the qualities he admired. Poetry should be formal, trope-filled, active, accentual, compact, and “shoutable.” In short, Barfield accepted, argued for, and hoped to exemplify the enduring value of Keats’s advice to Shelley, to “load every rift with ore.”
In opposition to those contemporaries who were unable to “accord nature a psyche,” Barfield embraced Wordsworth’s doctrine of the correspondent breeze, of the “Wisdom and Spirit of the universe” that is the “Soul that art the eternity of thought / That giv’st to form and images a breath” (Wordsworth, The Prelude, 24).3 Barfield’s poems are also often mystical, searching, and inward, exploring what he describes in The Tower as “the eternal mystery of light / Ever recurring now to memory” (TMPP, 75). The “holy awe” with which Barfield counsels his readers to set out and explore the world at the end of History in English Words is literal and fitting; it is also a gloss on the lines from Wordsworth’s Excursion with which he closes that book.
So too, though Barfield experiments with free verse, his commitment to traditional poetic forms is part of his intense study of the evolution of consciousness—the eternal mystery of light is reflected in the shimmering cultural memory woven into language, no less than in Wordsworth’s prescription of tranquil personal memory recollecting and reflecting on the heart’s passions. “On [the] subject [of meter],” C. S. Lewis wrote in his journal, “Barfield has probably forgotten more than I will ever know” (Lewis, All My Road Before Me, 53), and Barfield’s experiments with verse forms from Horatian meters to ballads, blank verse, sonnets, ottava rima, and so on, are efforts to enter via poetic form into the iridescent river of the history of consciousness as it meanders in, and by means of, poetic language.
The many poetry reviews Barfield wrote in the 1920s also cast light on the development of his poetic sensibility. They show an early commitment to originality, despite his equal commitment to traditional forms: he is especially alert that “when an Oxford poet is compelled to reveal lack of originality, [he] usually shows it by an extra effort to be original” (Barfield, Ballads, 701). One of the forms that nearly compels imitation, or an imitative effort to be original, is the ballad. The ballad may have suffered a nadir of interest in 1920—the year Pound, Eliot, and Yeats published Hugh Selwyn Mauberley, Ara Vos Prec, and “The Second Coming,” respectively—but for Barfield ballads “defy the aesthetic canons; for even those that unquestionably were beautiful the moment they were created are ever mellowing, in some mysterious way, with age” (Barfield, Ballads,
701). Recalling Schiller’s distinction between naïve and sentimental poetry, Barfield argues that “the pathos of ancient simplicity can never be quite the same as the pathos of simplicity itself” (Barfield, Ballads, 701). Thus, in the history of the ballad “we have the spirit behind the dates and genealogical trees. They are a cross-section of the history of a religion—part of humanity’s reaction to the Universe—and the cross-section marks every detail of the growth at that point” (Barfield, Ballads, 702). We rightly anticipate that Barfield’s modern ballads are self-aware attempts to recover ancient unity that acknowledge the impossibility of doing so; that they are “sentimental” in Schiller’s sense, historically self-aware recreations of a vanished “pathos of ancient simplicity” (Barfield, Ballads, 701).
In reviewing Edmund Blunden’s The Shepherd, a collection that owes much to the then-neglected Romantic-era poet John Clare, Barfield suggests that Blunden would do well “to follow the advice which Keats sent to Clare.” That advice, according to John Taylor (who published Keats and Clare, and passed messages between them), was that “the Description too much prevailed over the Sentiment” (Storey, John Clare: The Critical Heritage, 120). For Barfield, who reveals his underlying Keatsian aesthetic in his critique, Blunden shares with Clare a “bent for pure description” that minimizes “passion and music” to an excessive degree (Barfield, Review The Shepherd and Other Poems, 603). The underlying fault is with Clare, who for Barfield remains a “minor poet” because he wrote “many conventional and derivative poems” (Barfield, John Clare, 371). On the whole, Barfield finds that among Clare’s poems, “seventy-five per cent. is that quiet nature-poetry common to many minor poets, twenty per cent. is John Clare alloyed with Wordsworth and Burns, and five per cent. is John Clare speaking with his own voice” (Barfield, John Clare, 371). The saving five percent includes Clare’s asylum poems, which Barfield finds “curiously anticipatory of some of Walter de la Mare’s work” (Barfield, John Clare, 371).
The Modern Romantic: Walter de la Mare
The reference to de la Mare is notable, as the older poet (later Barfield’s close friend) would remain a kind of model for Barfield. Six weeks before his review of Clare appeared, Barfield published a review of de la Mare’s Poems 1901–1918. De la Mare is the only contemporary author besides C. S. Lewis about whom Barfield wrote more than one essay, and the only one whom he consistently praised. Already in 1920, he concludes that “among purely lyric poets Mr. Walter de la Mare will hold a very high place,” though he wonders “whether his habitual brevity will make posterity deny him a place among great poets” (Barfield, Walter de la Mare, 142). After de la Mare’s death in 1956, Barfield described him as having “a
permanent place among the English poets” (Barfield, Walter de la Mare, Anthroposophical Quarterly, 7). By 1973, the centenary of de la Mare’s birth, the poet’s reputation had eroded enough that Barfield can now “look back” on his past prominence and be content to assert that he is “venturing to write about” de la Mare’s poetry because it “does not really ‘fit’ into any of the received categories, although it has been confidently pigeonholed by a good many critics since the slaughter of the Georgian tradition was accomplished, almost overnight, by T. S. Eliot” (Barfield, Poetry in Walter de la Mare , 69).
Barfield’s three essays about de la Mare offer penetrating sidelong glances at the guiding contemporary lights of his poetic practice, though Barfield was not a disciple or student of de la Mare, and did not often try to emulate his work. The 1920 review, for example, though it begins by aligning de la Mare with Coleridge’s “witchery by daylight,” singles out Wordsworthian qualities for special note: de la Mare is “personally and magically intimate” with nature (Barfield, Walter de la Mare, 141) and “under Mr. de la Mare’s touch . . . the most commonplace of inanimate objects . . . take on . . . [an] intensely individual quality” (Barfield, Walter de la Mare, 141). This is Wordsworth’s task of “natural supernaturalism” in the Lyrical Ballads, and the opposite of Coleridge’s job of naturalizing the supernatural. De la Mare, a one-man Lyrical Ballads, seems to combine both sides of the Wordsworth–Coleridge polarity into a single poetic project: he “is always somehow personally intimate” with the “elves and fairies” (Barfield, Walter de la Mare, 140) that populate his early poems even as “his astonishingly subtle use of half-words and apparently meaningless interjections” contains a “music, which, like Coleridge’s, becomes unearthly to match the subject” (Barfield, Walter de la Mare, 141).
Barfield’s final article on de la Mare’s poetry focuses once again on the “peculium” that constitutes his “contribution to the corpus of English literature” (Barfield, Poetry in Walter de la Mare, 70). Barfield defends de la Mare’s use of Romantic diction despite the many bad poets who labor under “the illusion that I must be writing poetry because I am using the sort of diction other poets . . . have used in the past” (Barfield, Poetry in Walter de la Mare, 72). He also defends de la Mare from critics like Leavis who condemn his lack of psychological realism by countering that
on closer inspection . . . we find that “modern consciousness” means, not all that life can afford, but a certain constricted outlook on life which is shared in common by those among us who have swallowed, hook, line and sinker, the Locke—Newton—Darwin—Freud—H. G. Wells mélange and are still striving to digest it.
(Barfield, Poetry in Walter de la Mare, 75)
Barfield praises de la Mare’s freedom from the Anglo-materialist mélange, and his use of poetic diction and poetic license (a topic on which Barfield wrote an important preface to his own major Romantic poem, Riders on Pegasus). In this way, de la Mare set an important example in opposing the poetic-critical school that Barfield believed descended from that of Locke, “the Eliot-Pound-Leavis-Chicago-and-after canon that you took in through your pores in the English Department” (Barfield, Poetry in Walter de la Mare, 79). In this late portrait, completed after Barfield had largely finished his own poetic career, we see an oblique self-portrait of the iconoclastic Modernist Romantic, who uses archaic diction, inversions, and a host of other sins with full self-awareness, in order to achieve ends otherwise unattainable.
In the years between these articles, Barfield became a close friend of de la Mare. Their friendship grew because “Barfield’s theories on words attracted and interested him deeply, and they also had long discussions on anthroposophy” (Whistler, Imagination of the Heart, 369). Indeed, as they discussed Wordsworth’s poems in detail (Whistler, Imagination of the Heart, 416), Barfield “got him more than just politely interested in anthroposophy” (Whistler, Imagination of the Heart, 415), the mystical movement founded by Rudolf Steiner to which Barfield was himself committed. Some measure of the warmth and conversation between de la Mare and Barfield may be present in the unpublished poem, held at the Bodleian Library, that Barfield wrote for the elderly de la Mare’s birthday, which includes these stanzas: “Or ever language / Was joined in words, / Syllables talked / From the trees, like birds. . . . // Down flew language / On earth from air— / And well you know it, / Young de la Mare!” (Barfield, “ ‘Peacock Pie’ (For the seventy-fifth birthday of Walter de la Mare)”). Some hints of the conversations of these friends are also present in Barfield’s 1956 essay on de la Mare. Barfield sets himself the task to isolate “Walter de la Mare’s own peculiar poetic quality, his particular, unrepeatable gift to the whole realm of poesy” (Barfield, Walter de la Mare, Anthroposophical Quarterly, 7). As he did in his first article, Barfield finds this in what “comes out so mysteriously in the sounds of his poems” (Barfield, Walter de la Mare, Anthroposophical Quarterly, 9), and his surprising capacity to “go on using the old romantic diction and romantic imagery, long after it had been officially ‘killed’ at the end of the 1920s” (Barfield, Walter de la Mare, Anthroposophical Quarterly, 7). Barfield finds the source of this talent in a mystical, paradoxical polarity. On the one hand, de la Mare displayed a “love for the Earth [that] was of the self-identifying sort, which we also call compassion” (Barfield, Walter de la Mare, Anthroposophical Quarterly, 8). This was balanced on the other hand by the fact that “in some special sense, Walter de la Mare had to do with death: . . . it was an essential part of his
world—only not a terrible one—as if death were his familiar rather than his incubus” (Barfield, Walter de la Mare, Anthroposophical Quarterly, 8). Thus, “for de la Mare—and in this I believe he was a forerunner— the two poles—love of the earth and familiarity with death—were not incompatible. Rather, the one immeasurably deepened and strengthened the other” (Barfield, Walter de la Mare, Anthroposophical Quarterly, 9). This polarity is what distinguishes Walter de la Mare from all his contemporaries and nearly all his predecessors—that he was a poet of both worlds: the world of waking life, and that other world, whose golden keys—at least until we have learned (as Rudolf Steiner once put it) “to charm the night into the day”—are sleep and death.
(Barfield, Walter de la Mare, Anthroposophical Quarterly, 9)
De la Mare is, for Barfield, a fully modern mystical poet in the paradoxical lineage of Wordsworth—a poet of nature who is also attuned through inspiration to the spiritual music of the cosmos; a poet of life who is at ease with death, a poet of death who finds deeper life therein. The “post-Eliot generation” tries ineffectually to write of death’s dream kingdom, but the music of de la Mare is “an echo—faint but authentic— an echo caught only when the place is entered, or nearly entered, with love and not with fear” (Barfield, Walter de la Mare, Anthroposophical Quarterly, 9). Barfield never sought to emulate de la Mare’s “music,” but worked from the same archetype of the modern poet as embodying the polarity of objective compassion for the Earth and easy familiarity with the world of sleep and death, each pole finding its essence in its relation to its opposite.
Romantic Modernism: “Sleep”
De la Mare’s themes of sleep and death appear in Barfield’s early poem “Sleep.”4 The poem, one attempt “to charm the night into the day,” announces Barfield’s Romantic Modernism and, though accomplished in its own right, also reads in retrospect as an exercise for the more ambitious project of The Tower. Barfield noted on the typescript that he wrote “Sleep” before 1923, in other words not long after his initial reading of de la Mare, as he began to enter the debates between Eliot and Murry around the relevance and utility of the Romantic impulse. “Sleep” is a quintessential example of Barfield’s assimilation of his Romantic inheritance, even as its rhymed free verse is an oblique retort to Eliot’s insomniac, J. Alfred Prufrock. The poem recounts the relationship of “Sleep” and her unnamed brother, “whom she has loved.” This refers to the accounts by Hesiod and
Virgil of the siblings, who are children of Nyx.5 This would make the boy Death, as in Virgil’s famous description:
Just before the entrance, even within the very jaws of Hell, Grief and avenging Cares have made their bed; there pale Diseases dwell, and sad Age, and Fear, and ill-counselling Famine, and loathly Want, shapes terrible to view; and Death and Distress; next, Death’s own brother Sleep, and the soul’s Guilty Joys, and, on the threshold opposite, the deathbearer War, and the Furies’ iron cells, and savage Strife, her snaky locks entwined with bloody fillets.
(Virgil, Eclogues, Georgics, 525)
Little in this description comes directly into the poem—there is no sense of concrete location, no other siblings, no maternal presence. And yet, there is an undercurrent of “savage strife” in the relationship. The boy is prone to what Sleep considers to be “willfulness,” “bitter railing,” “graceless tears,” and “anger,” among other things. He is, in short, a “cruel brother.” His most death-like moment, though, is when he “scowls defiance at her from great books and dreams:– / In the wide light of dead men’s brooding thought, / The glow of Poets’ hearts.” At this, Sleep hurries to subdue her brother, “crooning for his delight a privy song” so that it is “not long till he so deep / Into her bosom should for ever creep.” That the song is “privy” emphasizes that it is both secret and sordid.
The dynamic of the siblings reminds one of the bewitching women in Yeats’s early poems, admired by Barfield, and of the relationship between the nurse Ginnistan (Fantasy) and her young charge Eros in Klingsohr’s Märchen in Novalis’ Heinrich von Ofterdingen (a tale that looms large in English People, the subject of the next chapter); but, it is more reminiscent still of the sexual conflict and general problem of “the female will” in Blake’s prophecies.6 It recalls, for example, the controlling and incestuous mother-son relationship of Enitharmon and Orc, as when Sleep “shook all her dark hair / Over his anger in a soft eclipse” and forced “a faint smile upon small lips.” The young boy plays his Orc-like role well. He “knows better who is weak and who is strong— / Gives none, but takes love offered with far fairer grace.” Even so, his sister-mother Sleep is the stronger of the two, and her successful soft eclipse of the fiery boy recalls one of Blake’s illustrations of Orc and Enitharmon (Figure 1.1).7 What for Sleep must be male cruelty is from her younger brother’s perspective an attempt to burn in bright wakefulness beyond her efforts at enclosure. When he “only rubs an eye, and burns more light, / And scowls defiance at her” he throws off his dogmatic slumbers. The fruit of his labor is a fleeting epiphany: “he saw a world / Unfolding as a flower—his breath caught, / As petal after petal fell unfurled. . . . / ‘What do they hide – / The
Figure 1.1 William Blake, Europe: A Prophecy, 1794, printed 1795, copy a, plate 6. Yale Center for British Art, Yale University, New Haven, Connecticut.
Flower’s heart. . . the God!’ ” This of course recalls the famous flower in Blake’s visionary “Auguries of Innocence”: “To see a World in a Grain of Sand / And a Heaven in a Wild Flower / Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand / And Eternity in an hour” (Blake, Complete Poetry and Prose, 493). “Sleep,” then, represents both a cosmic myth like Hesiod’s—the alternating struggle of day and night in the burning boy and his eclipsing sister—and the psychic turmoil of an incestuous sexual battle, as the boy seeks to unveil female sexuality even as his mother-sister’s overriding wish is that “he so deep / Into her bosom should for ever creep: / Sweet Sister Sleep!” When he begs his sister to “open the Ivory Gate” he refers to the gate of false dreams through which Aeneas returns to the wakeful surface world and the womb-world of false dreams that Blake calls “soft sexual delusions.” At the same time, the siblings are inner forces. Sleep is Coleridge’s “lethargy of custom” (a phrase Barfield often recalls throughout his life), while the boy tries to become, like Blake’s Los, the spirit of poetic genius. In this sense, the male sibling is not death at all but poetry, as in Keats’s poem “Sleep and Poetry,” as if the true title of Barfield’s poem were “Sleep and _ ,” where the missing word does not yet exist because it means both “death” and “poetry.” When the boy has his vision he even produces a Keatsian descriptive catalogue embroidered with Keatsian alliteration: “As petal after petal fell unfurled: / A linnet on the lilac bush, / Piping as if it could never grow old— / A dew-drenched cobweb in the morning hush— / And there were history, and hope, and tenderness untold.” The boy is only death to his sister, embodying the terror she feels at her possible loss of control over him; at the same time, he is the Romantic impulse itself struggling to awaken in a modern milieu that considers him dead because it wishes him so, even as it secretly desires a more intimate union with him, just as Eliot’s Prufrock desires and fears somnolent union with the mermaids, and the waking that is synonymous with drowning. In its complex effort to assimilate the Romantic tradition and bring it to vibrant life in the context of revolutionary Modernist poetics, “Sleep” captures nicely the Romantic Modernism that Barfield exhibits on a larger scale in The Tower.
The Tower
It is characteristic of Barfield’s combative mood throughout the 1920s that he was undeterred by Eliot’s rejection of The Tower for The Criterion and unmoved by Eliot’s suggestion that because Yeats would soon publish a landmark book of poems under that title he should pick a new one and have Virginia Woolf’s Hogarth Press publish it.8 Barfield considered Yeats, like Rilke, overly hermetic, and was unlikely to be pleased by his having used the same image and title for a major poetic project.
He meant his poem to realize a different vision, though as Theodore Ziolkowski notes, the tower itself was a surprisingly common image for many of the era’s poets; ironically, Barfield’s own symbolism has much in common with Rilke and Yeats, for whom the tower connotes “the gyrelike ascent of consciousness” (Ziolkowski, View from the Tower, 152). In fact, Barfield asserts the Romantic provenance of The Tower in its opening lines, with a series of allusions to the authors most important to him. The “golden afternoon” that “hung about” the youth “like a great, sunlit dewdrop gathering / To fall from a leaf’s point” (TMPP, 35) in the first six lines reminds one immediately of Keats’s “Sleep and Poetry”: “Stop and consider! life is but a day; / A fragile dew-drop on its perilous way / From the tree’s summit; a poor Indian’s sleep / While his boat hastens to the monstrous steep / Of Montmorenci” (Keats, Poems of John Keats, 39). This is quickly followed by the “smell . . . drowsing about the hedgerow . . . [that] clothed his body / And drew a warm veil over all his thought / With on the veil traced half obliterate / The pattern of some far forgotten day / In childhood” (TMPP, 35). These are the “hedgerows, hardly hedgerows” in Wordsworth’s “Tintern Abbey.” The passage culminates in an extended metaphor comparing the youth’s mind to a “smooth traveler,” which recalls Blake’s poem “The Mental Traveller.” These references are not merely signposts of alliance, but suggest a complex relationship. Barfield’s dewdrop is a sunny epiphany, suggesting by contrast with Keats’s cautionary emphasis on the ephemeral that Barfield’s character is initially naïve. So too, the reference to Wordsworth lets us know that Barfield’s poem will take up the complex relation of memory, imagination, community, and nature that Barfield calls “compassion” in his 1956 essay on de la Mare. The inclusion of an allusion to “The Mental Traveller” highlights that the relation of these ideas, and of their cosmic equivalents, is not easy, but can at any moment collapse into sterile cyclicity.9 The themes opened by the references to Keats, Wordsworth, and Blake also resonate throughout the poem: the relations of memory to creative consciousness and of the individual to the cosmic “I,” and the dialectic of vision and cynicism that can itself become a cynical cycle.
The role of memory in The Tower is why for C. S. Lewis it was primarily a Wordsworthian poem, though the differences are no less significant than the overlap. Perhaps the most notable difference is that by using third person narration, Barfield distances his voice from the personal recollection that Wordsworth uses in poems like “Tintern Abbey” and The Prelude. Barfield’s use of the third-person highlights the painful dimension of the paradoxes of memory that Wordsworth also addresses with subtle sophistication: that even as it promises the unity of the self by providing continuity across time, the dislocations of memory in fact reveal its fissures.
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Älkää antako sen seikan ahdistaa mieltänne, että syömme siellä pannukakkua. Sehän on ikivanhaa, ikuista, ja siinäkin on hyvää, sanoi
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— Ja näin kuljemme aina, koko elämän, käsi kädessä! Eläköön Karamazov! — huudahti vielä kerran riemuissaan Kolja, ja kaikki pojat yhtyivät vielä kerran hänen huutoonsa.
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